‘Mine! didst thou say, beloved one? and is that left thee still?’
‘Mine,’ said she, pensively; and as she abased her head, the broad leaf of the lily hid her brow and her eyes; the light of heaven shone through the flower.
‘O Fiametta! Fiametta!’ cried I in agony, ‘God is the God of mercy, God is the God of love ... can I, can I ever?’ I struck the chalice against my head, unmindful that I held it; the water covered my face and my feet. I started up, not yet awake, and I heard the name of Fiametta in the curtains.
Petrarca. Love, O Giovanni, and life itself, are but dreams at best. I do think
Never so gloriously was Sleep attended
As with the pageant of that heavenly maid.
But to dwell on such subjects is sinful. The recollection of them, with all their vanities, brings tears into my eyes.
Boccaccio. And into mine too ... they were so very charming.
Petrarca. Alas, alas! the time always comes when we must regret the enjoyments of our youth.
Boccaccio. If we have let them pass us.
Petrarca. I mean our indulgence in them.